


Controlled Intake

by OneBlueUmbrella (bigblueboxat221b)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternative Perspective, Chronic Illness, Eating Disorders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hiding Medical Issues, M/M, Medical Conditions, Mycroft Has An Eating Disorder, Protective Greg, Self-Doubt, Self-Esteem Issues, Weight Issues, Worried Greg Lestrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-14 11:01:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28544472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/OneBlueUmbrella
Summary: Greg can see Mycroft's hiding something, and he wants to help. But months of hinting has done nothing - will he risk their friendship to force a conversation about something Mycroft clearly does not want to discuss?
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 26
Kudos: 156





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Read the tags on this please - it's fairly intense, and if the issues tagged are difficult for you, this may not be the story for you.
> 
> Written by request for Joel, who is a lovely human and always supportive. I'll be posting one chapter a month until we're done.

“New restaurant around the corner from my place is meant to be pretty good. Fancy meeting me there tomorrow night?”

Mycroft’s response was exactly what Greg knew it would be. “Thank you for your invitation, however I find myself unable to accept.”

Greg was nodding almost before Mycroft finished speaking. “Sure, no problem.” He waved one hand at the crime scene behind him. “Thanks for your help with this.”

“Of course,” Mycroft replied. “Good evening, Detective Inspector.”

“Good night,” Greg said. He watched Mycroft walk back to his car, berating himself for not knowing how to ask the question. Hell, he didn’t even know if it was a question he wanted to ask. The man was so private, and here was definitely not the place, anyway. Greg reminded himself he could wait until they had a quiet evening together, no pressing crime scene to process or car waiting to whisk Mycroft away. He’d work out how to phrase it in a non-threatening way. Some set of words to allow Mycroft the option of not answering if he didn’t want.

Turning back to the scene, Greg put the Mycroft problem to the side for the moment. He could think about it later. Right now they needed to use the intel from Mycroft to get this scene wrapped up so he could get something to eat and go home. He didn’t have time to be distracted.

Later, as Greg unpacked his burger, he wondered what Mycroft was doing. Had he eaten this evening? Did he prefer to eat alone? He was certainly a very private person. Maybe he had a fear of looking silly if he spilled or something. Greg sighed, wiping mayo off the side of his hand. Clearly that would not be a problem here. No matter how many times Greg thought about it, no new ideas came into his head, and he always came back to the same thing.

_He doesn’t want to have dinner with you, Greg._

But as much as it made sense for some of the facts, it simply didn’t line up with anything else about the way Mycroft and Greg interacted. They would sit and talk, the words quiet and easy at the end of the night. Greg was sure Mycroft’s eyes were calm and relaxed as they discussed the surprising number of things they had in common. Mycroft offered help far more often than he needed to, often coming to the scene if Greg was unable to get to him. And it would make sense for them to eat when they were meeting to talk about Sherlock, yet Mycroft always managed to avoid it.

A couple of times Greg had come right from work, or been picked up before he’d had a chance for late lunch. The first time he didn’t say anything, but the second time he’d brought his sad excuse for a sandwich with him, too ravenous not to eat even if it wasn’t entirely polite.

“Might I offer you something else to eat?” Mycroft had asked, watching as Greg unwrapped his sandwich.

“Oh, nah, it’s fine,” Greg said, though he had inhaled his sandwich and wished there was another (perhaps not quite as soggy. The tomato was a bad idea, why did he always forget?).

“Please,” Mycroft replied. “I did not realise you had not eaten. The kitchen will prepare whatever you might wish.”

“Well okay,” Greg said reluctantly. “Are you gonna order something?”

“I am not,” Mycroft replied, “but please do not let that prevent you.”

Greg shrugged and ordered a BLT and some hot chips. They were amazing, of course, yet discomfort prickled at his neck as he ate, Mycroft sat before him. They talked quietly, Greg very aware of the bacon grease running down the side of his hand. He couldn’t be sure if grey eyes followed his tongue as he chased it or if it was his imagination. It was just the two of them, after all, and their conversation continued; of course Mycroft would be watching him.

The next time Greg didn’t hesitate when Mycroft offered. His meal times varied wildly when he was at work, and while Mycroft never picked him up squarely in the middle of a standard lunch or dinner break, he really didn’t seem to mind if Greg wanted to eat. In fact, he regularly offered, ordering whatever Greg requested without so much as a flicker of his eyebrow.

And he never, ever, ate a thing.

He would drink with Greg, though never more than two carefully measured pours; he did not comment if Greg had a third after a particularly stressful day. Greg wasn’t driving and Mycroft always had excellent Scotch. He was generous with his booze and food though of course it wasn’t a hardship for him to call down to the kitchen. But no matter what time it was or how much Greg ate, Mycroft never so much as asked for a single hot chip.

Greg was torn.

It was months since that first BLT and chips, and there’d been a fair few since then, too. Their conversations veered more and more often into matters if not precisely personal, definitely not professional. But for all the quiet comments about family and childhood, preferences when it came to media and sport, they never talked about food except in the very broadest sense. Mycroft enjoyed a range of cuisines, his palate widened by his extensive travel, but Greg didn’t push to find out which dishes he specifically he enjoyed. They talked about Mycroft’s suits without discussing why he chose the tailor he did. And though Greg used to make disparaging remarks about how his body had changed since he’d been doing more desk work, Mycroft never smiled.

Adding it all together, Greg could tell Mycroft was fairly hung up on his weight. There were the snide comments from his brother, his obvious aversion to eating in front of people (though for ‘people’ Greg had only really observed himself) and the fact his clothes were definitely too big, despite being tailor-made. It was all the more bewildering to Greg because from where he was standing, Mycroft looked fine. Well, more than fine. Slim, with long legs and Greg would bet the pale skin of his wrists and neck continued under those expensive suits. All of which ticked boxes Greg hadn’t really known he’d had until he met Mycroft. It was clear he was uncomfortable in his own body and now that he’d realised, Greg deliberately avoided conversations about anything that might go in that direction.

Greg wondered if Mycroft had noticed the careful curating of the topics they covered. He certainly couldn’t bring it up, so Greg resigned himself to waiting until Mycroft was comfortable talking about it. He allowed long silences to grow on their late nights together, hoping Mycroft would have the courage to say something. Nothing eventuated, and the subtle openings Greg created remained unexplored. Given how skilfully Mycroft was able to manipulate a conversation, Greg figured he’d be waiting a while.

And there lay the problem. From comments he’d made when talking about their childhoods or past, Greg figured something fairly major had happened to get Mycroft into this mindset about himself. He never came out and said it, but a twist of his mouth alongside a dry comment, or a hum of agreement when Greg commented about Sherlock confirmed Greg’s suspicion.

“Birthday parties can be their own kind of torture,” Mycroft said once, after Greg lamented the sugar fuelled meltdown his nephew suffered one weekend.

“Too much junk food throws his body right out of whack,” Greg agreed.

“As it does many of us,” Mycroft murmured.

Greg had raised his eyebrow but restrained himself from asking what that meant. Another day, Sherlock had wrestled a woman to the ground at a scene and refused to explain himself. Hoping Mycroft would be able to unstick his tongue, Greg made the call.

“Your brother can be a dick,” Greg muttered, accepting the coffee Mycroft brought with him.

“I will deal with my brother,” Mycroft replied. “Please consider this an olive branch.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t appreciate him airing every little thing he’s deduced about me,” Greg grumbled. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“He has been adept at exploiting what he sees as weakness for a long time,” Mycroft said.

“Bet that made your childhood fun,” Greg replied.

The hum of agreement was all the acknowledgement Mycroft offered, but later as Greg considered the exchange he realised how personal that comment had been. No wonder Mycroft didn’t want to share. As he considered this in the light of Mycroft’s self-esteem, Greg nodded. If Mycroft had been overweight as a kid of course Sherlock would have made a big deal out of it. There was no way he’d let something like that slide. It tugged at his heart to know Mycroft’s self-confidence was so scarred from his past. He yearned to talk to Mycroft about it, to help him see the man Greg saw.

And now as Greg tossed the remains of his chips and the wrapper from his burger in the bin, he knew he was reaching the point where he had to say something. His desire to help was too great. The complication, of course, being that no matter how he phrased it, there was a good chance Mycroft would politely excuse himself and then never contact Greg again.

+++

The problem followed Greg around for a few days as he mused the best approach. Sally noticed his preoccupation. They’d never beat around the bush with each other and when she flat out asked what was the matter, he asked her how she’d approach talking to someone about something they were obviously sensitive about.

“Why do you want to know?” she asked. “I mean, do you need to know so you can do something helpful or are you just a nosy bugger?”

Greg considered her question. It was a good point. Was it going to help if he knew? What could he actually do?

Sally watched him think, but shrugged impatiently before he could answer. “Just ask them,” she said. “I mean, if you’re good enough friends they won’t mind.” She grinned. “Might tell you to piss off, then you’ll know where you stand.”

Greg nodded, pretending that was useful. “Thanks,” he said, but she’d already taken back her paperwork. Perhaps this wasn’t the best time for him to ask, actually.

When he asked Molly, her answer was a lot more considered, though far heavier on the empathy and gently supportive comments. Not exactly Greg’s style, and he didn’t want to come off as condescending. He decided he should keep some of what she said in mind, but aim for something closer to the dynamic they already had.

Of all the people he asked, John was the most helpful.

“That’s a tough one,” John said. “If it was me, I think I’d state my concerns, then tell the person it was up to them if they wanted to talk or anything. Leave it in their hands, you get what I mean?”

“Yeah,” Greg replied. The conversation moved on but John’s suggestion stuck in his brain and the next day as he waited for the coffee machine to do its thing, Greg decided that was the way to go. He didn’t want Mycroft to feel trapped or like he expected anything. The purpose of the conversation would be to let Mycroft know he was worried, and open to talking. And if Mycroft wanted to ignore that, it was his right.

It might break Greg’s heart, but that would be his problem to deal with.


	2. Chapter 2

“Thank you for your invitation, however I find myself unable to accept.”

The words had been automatic, and it wasn’t until he was back in his car Mycroft allowed himself to grieve the opportunity lost. Much as he wanted Gregory’s company – oh, how he _wanted_ that man – a meal was impossible.

Only the explanation would be more difficult than eating a meal in his presence. As his car slid through the streets, Mycroft took a deep breath, remembering who he was. If he was to maintain his independence, there was no option. This was his life. This was what his life had to be. Self-control. Making good choices. Ensuring his focus remained on his body.

Counting calories.

Retaining specialists.

Monitoring his body fat.

The familiar sequence of motions jolted him back to the car. Right turn, slow bump, swoop down into the carpark under his building. The car pulled up outside his private lift, and Mycroft stepped out. His thumbprint summoned the lift and he stepped inside. It was a confining box lined with matt white walls, but Mycroft had insisted. No mirrors, no reflective surfaces of any kind in his office or home. Catching sight of his reflection was never desirable and as it was, Mycroft found the twenty minutes in which he shaved and fixed his hair in the morning to be a singularly stressful experience. The bathroom mirror remained covered the rest of the day.

Normally Mycroft would relish an early evening. The opportunity to complete his usual routines while not deeply exhausted was rare and he sometimes read or listened to music. This afternoon was not such an opportunity. He sighed, despair a closer companion than usual as he chose workout clothes for later. Even the feel of his belly under his hand was not comforting. He’d worked hard to get to this point, but even so, there was no opportunity to rest on his laurels. He could not risk even a moment without vigilance. All he’d gained would be lost with a single poor decision, and the consequences would be dire.

No.

Picking up his phone, Mycroft texted his dietician. She was on call this afternoon, and her reply ensured she’d be here with the rest of his team in half an hour. Long enough to find his notes and prepare for their meeting. His reminder alarm pinged as he set the notebook on the dining table and he found the afternoon’s allocation of tablets. The ritual of taking medication was not the complex issue some people seemed to think. Water, double check counting that his collection matched the list of what it should, and he slowly swallowed tablet after tablet until they were gone. When he was younger a doctor had encouraged him to think about his medication as superhero pills; Mycroft had successfully dispatched with her with a few carefully chosen words. It was cruel, but so was the world, he was learning, and why should the terrible hand dealt him generate empathy for those whose bodies behaved as they should?

Finding himself waiting in the living room, Mycroft closed his eyes, allowing the memories that had threatened to overrun him all afternoon to burst through.

He’d known since he was small his body was not the same as everyone else’s. The whispered voice in which his mother spoke of Mycroft’s ‘difficulties’ finding appropriate clothing or joining into activities with other children at the school they insisted he attend. Children might not have realised initially, but as soon as he’d been excused from various school programs, including school lunches and what passed for physical education, they noticed. Even as a child Mycroft’s physical activity had been dictated by a professional. As though his superior intellect had not been enough, Mycroft had also been burdened by a body marked as different to other students.

His parents had tried; specialist after specialist had been summoned to the house. Mycroft’s missed days of school soon numbered in the dozens, not that it mattered academically. But children have a way of finding out what makes others different, and his secret was so blatantly visible to those directed to look that it did not remain a secret for long. Even now, a grown man with probably more power than any other individual in England, the voices of those small children echoed in Mycroft’s ears, as painful today as they had been the first time.

“Even the doctors can’t help you!”

“Why do they keep taking you out of school?” “Because he’s a freak!”

“There’s no cure, you know. You’ll be like forever. Until you die!”

“My mum says if you don’t control it you’ll die really soon.”

“My sister reckons it’s because he doesn’t eat properly.”

Mycroft shook his head. Those children were long gone, grown up or possibly dead themselves now. He didn’t know anything at all about them; that day he’d returned home from school and announced he would not be returning. His parents were welcome to engage private tutors, otherwise Mycroft would simply wait until he was old enough to sit his O levels. The expression in his mother’s eyes – part sympathy, part relief – was poorly hidden, and Mycroft had gritted his teeth. He didn’t want sympathy. He wanted to be taught how to make his body look the way he wanted it to, and he wanted not to have to talk to people about it.

The first wish was far easier than the second.

Ensuring his body looked the way he wanted was exhausting. No matter how much he knew – and Mycroft Holmes knew considerably more than many medical professionals – there was constant tweaking of his diet and exercise to maximise results. His sleep was always poor, and some of the long-term effects of his medication were difficult to manage. There was no room for error or complacency, and the times he’d lapsed Mycroft had regretted it. His body was a difficult one and there were no shortcuts.

Sacrifices were inevitable.

The arrival of his team made Mycroft discard the memories, at least for a while. They discussed his body with clinical distraction, nobody blushing or looking away, least of all Mycroft. He had been doing this too long to shy away from the hard truths. In the end, they made a small change to his medication, and he once again refused to consider the benefits of a sleep apnoea machine.

“This meeting is concluded,” Mycroft said. He could see a couple of concerned glances exchanged, but everyone acquiesced to his wishes. He offered a tight smile, but it slid from his face as soon as the door closed behind them.

He needed to eat. He _should_ eat, but it was so difficult. In a moment of weakness Mycroft leaned against the door, the wood cool against his forehead. He allowed the self-pity to run riot for two long, slow breaths; without them he would collapse into sobs and abandon his tasks for the evening, as sure as night followed day. When the second breath was done, Mycroft pulled in the third and dragged himself upright.

He had to eat. His meal was in the refrigerator, pre-prepared to meet his nutritional needs, and discarding part of it was not optional. When he had eaten, his gymnasium awaited him, regardless of how tired he felt. The same routine of weights and resistance before his regular run. Keeping his head clear during that time was critical. He was mentally preparing for the step that followed. And once he was done on the treadmill, the most difficult part of his day.

Mycroft showered in the dark, or as close as he was able. A child’s nightlight in the corner allowed him to find the taps and his towel while reducing the likelihood of him seeing any part of his body, even accidentally. Exfoliating gloves allowed him to wash his skin without having to feel the curves and lines that lay below below; the clinical measurements he made on a regular basis were enough, and he was already intimately familiar with the multitude of scars and marks his life had already inflicted.

By the time he made it to bed – pyjamas buttoned to his throat – Mycroft was exhausted. He sat up briefly, checking email to ensure nothing catastrophic had fallen on Her Majesty’s Empire and if not, a carefully curated playlist would help him sleep as well as he was able. Tonight, it was not enough to stop Mycroft’s brain from coming back to the last person he’d spoken to before arriving home. The same person he often considered in the quiet points of his day.

Gregory Lestrade.

The closest person in his life, if Mycroft was being honest with himself. He knew more about Mycroft than almost anyone on the planet, and yet Mycroft was unable to share the most basic of human experiences with him. Eating together was not an option. Not without Mycroft explaining everything, and why would a Detective Inspector be interested in listening to the banal struggles of a man against his own body? Nothing would be less enticing, and Mycroft was determined to keep this one bright spot in his life above all else. Even if it meant keeping Gregory at arm’s length.

With a sigh, Mycroft allowed his mind to drift back. The first time he offered Gregory a meal – after avoiding standard meal times with a careful precision for a very long time. That sandwich had been truly pitiful, and yet Gregory’s appetite was clear. There was no way Mycroft could sit there, knowing how readily available a far superior meal was, and not offer it. In retrospect he wasn’t entirely sure he’d concealed his interest as Gregory licked bacon grease from his hand that day. The pull deep in his abdomen was unfamiliar but not entirely unexpected. After courting Gregory for so long it was inevitable watching him eat would stir something.

Mycroft couldn’t be sure if Gregory noticed that moment, but it was clear from his watchful eyes he knew Mycroft was holding something back. It was his job, after all, and he was exceptionally good at it. The fact he hadn’t asked Mycroft about it yet was akin to a miracle, and each time they met and the subject slid by Mycroft heaved an internal sigh of relief. Gregory had become more and more considered in his comments, and his increasing tendency to allow silences to linger while pretending not to flick glances at Mycroft was well meaning but obvious.

He was waiting for Mycroft to say something.

Exactly how much he’d put together was not clear, but Mycroft could surmise enough. They no longer talked about food, even in passing. Today was the first time in a long time Gregory had asked if Mycroft was going to eat with him, or invited him to eat together. He’d stopped talking about the extra kilos he’d put on when he’d made DI and spent more time on paperwork, and his eyes grew thoughtful more often when Mycroft mentioned anything difficult from his past. In the unlikely circumstance that Gregory did start a conversation about that difficult subject, Mycroft wouldn’t even know where to start. He had spent more time discussing and thinking about his body than anything else in his life, and yet explaining his relationship to it felt impossible.

Grunting, Mycroft rolled over, irritated these thoughts were keeping him from sleep. He would have to accept that disclosure to Gregory would result in the end of their friendship, and to that end, he would have to continue to keep his secret.


	3. Chapter 3

Greg breathed deeply.

He hadn’t expected to see Mycroft at Baker Street, and from the panic in those grey eyes, Mycroft had been equally unaware he was coming.

“Hi,” Greg said.

Mycroft, some kind of greyish smoothie in one hand and a dozen or so pills in the other, froze.

“Gregory,” he whispered, more in recognition than greeting.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” Greg said. “John asked me to come, apparently Sherlock has found something I should see?”

“They left,” Mycroft said. “Expected to return in half an hour.”

“Right,” Greg said. He pointed to the smoothie. “That looks interesting. What’s in it?”

“Various things,” Mycroft said, panic still simmering in his eyes even as his fingers closed around his pills.

“Are they Sherlock’s?” Greg asked. They were all different, from what he’d glimpsed before Mycroft hid them. “He’s not using again, is he?”

“Not to my knowledge,” Mycroft said. He tucked the pills in his pocket. “Will you wait for my brother?”

“I guess so,” Greg replied.

Mycroft nodded, though his lips pressed tight, matching the tension radiating from every part of his body.

“Look, are you okay?” Greg asked. Mycroft looked like he seriously battling a fight or flight response in himself, and Greg had no idea how come. He glanced at the smoothie again, and a glimmer of something gave him an idea.

_Maybe…_

“I might give John a call from the living room,” Greg said. He flashed a smile. “Come let me know when you go?”

Mycroft’s shoulders sagged a little before he caught the response. “Certainly,” he murmured.

Greg was fairly sure that smoothie was some kind of meal replacement rubbish. What the hell was Mycroft doing with that? And the pills? If he was telling the truth and they weren’t Sherlock’s, were they Mycroft’s? That was a hell of a collection, and Mycroft knew it might be an attempt to get nutrients into himself he wasn’t getting from his restricted diet.

_I hate seeing him like this._

Greg called John, who told him he might as well go home. Sherlock was shouting in the background, and when he realised it was Greg on the other end he made some pointed comments before Greg could hang up. It left Greg thinking, but he dropped into the sofa anyway, as much to think as to give Mycroft time to drink whatever it was he was going to drink.

“Phone call’s done,” Greg called. It took another minute or so before Mycroft appeared. His eyes were cautious, and it broke Greg’s heart a little. As though Greg might make things worse, or more difficult.

“And the result?”

“They’re off somewhere,” Greg said. “Sherlock was shouting about some kind of tobacco. I think John was just trying to keep up.”

“As expected, then,” Mycroft said.

Greg nodded, rubbing his suddenly sweaty palms down his trousers. For some reason the opening he’d been looking for was here, and something told him it was the right time to take it.

“Sherlock mentioned something else,” Greg said, taking a deep breath. He must have telegraphed his nerves because Mycroft looked at him, eyes sharp. The world slowed for a second before Mycroft seemed to make a decision of his own, sitting on the arm of John’s chair.

“He did?”

Greg nodded. “He was pretty upset. I asked him if it was something you could help with.”

“Unlikely he would have agreed,” Mycroft murmured.

“Yeah,” Greg said. The silence hung and he didn’t know if he was going to continue until his mouth opened and he blurted, “He suggested you’d rather do a Marie Antoinette.”

Mycroft closed his eyes, a flush rolling up his cheeks. He sat back, shoulders collapsing a little under the weight of whatever Sherlock’s words meant.

“What does it mean?” Greg winced, the words having slipped out. Now that he’d done it, regret crowded in fast. “You don’t have to answer that.”

It was silence again, but the expectation now lay heavily against Mycroft. Greg pressed his lips together, not wanting to wreck the moment by continuing to talk. If Mycroft needed time to think, after Greg had taken so long to speak in the first place, it was the least he could do. The seconds ticked past and Greg counted his breaths, keeping them under control.

“He refers to a misattributed quote, ‘ _Qu'ils mangent de la brioche_ ’.”

Greg nodded. “Let them eat bread,” he said. “Well, kind of.”

“Precisely,” Mycroft said.

Greg’s heart was pounding as he waited for Mycroft to continue.

“A reference to my health difficulties,” Mycroft murmured, his voice barely carrying across the space. “Sherlock has always known how to use people’s weaknesses to his advantage.”

Greg swallowed. All his plans for this conversation were gone out of his head and all he could think was _I want to help._

“A lot of people are…conscious of their weight,” Greg said, hoping he wasn’t saying something accidentally offensive. “It’s not a weakness, Mycroft.”

Mycroft, whose eyes had remained closed, drew a deep breath. He opened his eyes to look at Greg for a long time. Greg tried to hold his gaze; he wasn’t sure if Mycroft was trying to believe him, or was so offended he was trying to work out how to best decimate Greg.

“I wonder if you might indulge me,” Mycroft said. His voice shook a little but his eyes were steady.

“Sure,” Greg replied. He had no idea what Mycroft had in mind but he was in.

Mycroft nodded to himself, then stood and typed something on his phone. “Please,” he murmured, indicating the door.

Greg followed him out, heart pounding. Where were they going? He wasn’t going to ask lest he spook Mycroft, or change his mind. They slid into the car and sat in silence through the streets. Greg wasn’t concentrating on where they were going; it didn’t take long for the car to pull up in an underground carpark and he realised he had no idea which area of London they were in.

“My flat,” Mycroft said quietly. “If I might show you some things that will help you understand.”

Greg blinked. “Are you sure?” he said.

Mycroft nodded.

_Jesus._

“Okay,” Greg whispered.

Mycroft pressed his thumb to the touchscreen and the doors opened. They stepped in, the small space made smaller by the white walls. It took a couple of seconds before Greg realised why that was unusual. No mirrors. He raised an eyebrow, but Mycroft’s attention was inwards until the lift doors opened, and they stepped directly into his entranceway.

“Welcome to my home,” Mycroft said quietly.

“Thanks,” Greg said. He tucked his hands into his pockets and let his eyes roam once around the room. Nicely decorated, nothing out of place. No TV, lots of books. More or less what he’d expect. “Nice place.”

Mycroft nodded. He turned as though to lead Greg through, but paused. He straightened and faced Greg as though about to make a momentous admission.

“What I wish to show you is…personal,” he said. “It is on the understanding that nothing you see here will be discussed outside my home, even between the two of us. Is that clear?”

“Of course,” Greg said. Jesus, how bad was Mycroft’s shame about this?

Mycroft nodded. “You will notice the lack of reflective surfaces,” he said, walking through the living room. They walked into the kitchen and Greg stopped. Everything was beautiful, of course, but as Mycroft had pointed out, nothing was reflective. The oven glass was matt, the fridge integrated into the cabinets. Greg tried to do what he did at work – have a look but try not to make assumptions until he had all the information. Mycroft obviously wanted him to see a bunch of stuff, but it was hard not to add it up and see a profile of a man who struggled with his weight and was incredibly sensitive to it.

“Nutritional supplements and prescribed medication,” Mycroft said, opening a drawer. Greg’s mouth dropped open when he saw the wide flat containers. Each held a dozen tablets or more, each labelled with AM/PM and a date.

“Each of these is for a single day?” he said, glancing up.

“It is,” Mycroft said. “Some are to be taken with food, others at specific times of day. I keep a supply on my person in case I am not able to be at home at the correct time.”

Greg nodded, biting the inside of his mouth. “That looks complicated,” he said.

“I am fortunate enough to employ people to organise it on my behalf,” Mycroft replied. “Monitoring my medication is an ongoing concern.”

He opened the refrigerator. It was filled with food containers, also clearly labelled. “Prepacked meals,” Mycroft said. “Designed to meet my nutritional needs.”

“You do this while you’re travelling?” Greg asked. He winced. “Sorry, that’s none of my business.”

Mycroft nodded, eyes serious. “My nutritionist travels with me,” he said. “Her priority is ensuring I am able to access what I need.”

Greg nodded again, his mind whirling. Why was Mycroft showing him all this? It was incredibly regimented and personal, but still didn’t quite explain why Mycroft had been so upset by his brother’s comment. Surely someone so in control wouldn’t be affected by that kind of thing?

“This way,” Mycroft said, and they exited the kitchen and down a short hallway. “My gymnasium.”

Again, no windows, mirrors or televisions; a strange absence in a room full of exercise equipment. Everything looked expensive and well cared for, but it was clearly a room that was used regularly. Greg’s eyes wandered over weights, resistance bands, a treadmill. Pretty standard, and it fit in with the weight conscious profile he was already building of Mycroft.

“Nice,” Greg said. “You use it all the time,” he said.

“When I am home,” Mycroft said. “Load bearing cardio and resistance training are essential to maintain my health.”

Something pinged in Greg’s brain. It was a strange way to phrase it. He was about to ask when Mycroft spoke again.

“The last space, if you would be so kind.”

He walked two more steps, but hesitated in front of a closed door. Long fingers reached out, but Greg could see he was shaking.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to show me anything you don’t want to.”

Mycroft exhaled, deep and shaky, and his outstretched fingers formed a fist instead. He paused and turned back without meeting Greg’s eyes.

“Might I offer you a cup of tea?” he whispered.

“Yeah,” Greg said. “A cuppa would be great.”

The kitchen was behind him, so he turned and led the way back, hovering over to one side so he was out of the way. Mycroft made up a tea tray, eyes firmly on what he was doing and definitely not meeting Greg’s. It tugged at Greg’s heart again, and he was still a little in the dark. Clearly, the things Mycroft had shared were incredibly personal to him, but there was something Greg was missing. Was it in that room he didn’t open? Either way, he would have to ask what Mycroft was trying to tell him.

“Thank you,” Greg said, when Mycroft brought their tea over to the small table resting in his kitchen. They each added milk, and Greg sugar to his tea. When they’d both taken a sip there was nothing else to stop Greg asking.

“I don’t think I understand,” Greg said. He hoped what was about to come out of his mouth was the right thing. “You don’t have to explain anything if you don’t want, and I won’t bring it up again. But if you want to tell me what this means for you, I’d like to hear.”

Mycroft looked up at him for a long time before he finally nodded.

Greg’s heart started thumping. This was the moment he finally found out what was going on.


End file.
